


By The Grace Of His Soul

by Caughtinblackseyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Eventual Destiel/Cas and Dean, Eventual Sex, Friendship/Love, Gracefic, M/M, Nasty Language, Some angst, Soulfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:43:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caughtinblackseyes/pseuds/Caughtinblackseyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is wounded beyond even Gabriel's attempts to heal and, for some unknown reason, Cas isn't able to use his Grace to heal his vessel either. Desperate, Dean will try anything to save Cas even if it means having to sacrifice himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grace Compromised

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: As you can tell, characters who have met their demise will be alive and well in this fic. This will be a slow build fic in one sense and a get right down to it in another. 
> 
> I own nothing pertaining to Supernatural and make no money from having fun with its people.
> 
> This is not beta'd, so forgive any mistakes.

Chapter One

Considering that Dean was pretty sure he still had those nifty Enochian symbols stenciled onto his ribs, he couldn’t be blamed, _at all_ , for the less than manly shriek he’d let out when not one, but _two_ angels of the Lord appeared behind him. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest, but it picked up double time when he realized Cas was slumped against the side of a - last he’d heard - dead arch-angel.

“Well, don’t just stand there Dean-o,” the pain in the ass former Trickster snapped impatiently. “Cassie here might have the lithe body of a prima ballerina, but he’s still dead weight at the moment.”

“What the hell happened,” Dean demanded, grabbing Cas’ other arm and draping it over his shoulder. He shifted slightly and the unconscious angel’s head flopped into the crook of his neck. Unnerved by this show of frailty, Dean bit out sharply, “Come on, let’s put him on the bed.”

“You’re just full of fabulously innovative ideas,” Gabriel answered back with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “And here I was thinking you were nothing but a brainless, low-browed Neanderthal.” 

Dean gritted his teeth angrily, but said nothing because right now he was more concerned about Cas than he was about the asshat giving him shit. They reached the bed in less than two strides at which point Gabriel basically flung the other angel at him. Dean staggered briefly, swearing colorfully and mumbling about asshole angels and their asshole agendas and their serious asshole assholedness.

Dean laid the unconscious Cas out on the bed as gently as he could, alarmed by the sickly pallor of his friend’s face. Yeah sure, Cas was generally on the pale side, but nothing like this.

“What happened,” he asked again, tearing his eyes away from the fallen angel and glowering angrily at the other one who was casually stripping a wrapper from a candy bar.

“Dunno,” Gabriel managed to get out around a mouth full of Snickers, "but, I have my suspicions."

Running a hand through his hair, Dean asked with a worried frown, “Is he gonna be okay?”

Shrugging his shoulders, the angel mumbled another cavalier, “Dunno,” as he chewed and rolled the candy around in his bulging cheeks.

“Do you know _anything_ ,” Dean snapped, pretty pissed with this shit-heads attitude. 

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed dangerously at Dean’s tone, and while it was sorta nerve wracking Dean wasn’t one to cower whether he was facing off against a demon or an angel. Sure, this particular angel had killed him a trillion times over in order to get a message across to Sammy. Sure, he’d zapped them both into Prime Time Purgatory Pleasantville style. Dean Winchester did not give a damn how powerful he was because when you got right down to it, Gabriel was still nothing but a dick and dicks did not deserve respect.

Pinning Dean with a dark look, Gabriel swallowed his mouthful and said, “I wasn’t there when it happened, you moron.” Dean’s brow drew together in a tight knot. “I heard Cassie call for me, and since I had nothing better to do, I answered it. He looked like hell when I got there, but he was still conscious. Passed out on me during transit, and let me tell you, there’s nothing more difficult than lugging around an angel meat suit while you’re bending space and time especially as it was Cassie here who set the Delorean’s flux capacitor to this destination. It’s a miracle we both made it here in one piece.”

Dean glanced down at Cas once more. “Why’s he look so awful?”

Reaching in his pocket, Gabriel pulled out a handful of Rolos and began to peel away the gold foil of one before saying matter-of-factly, “Well, if I had to take a wild stab in the dark, I’d say his Grace has been compromised.” 

“What,” Dean bit out, baffled.

“His Grace… His angel mojo, isn’t that what you call it?” Dean nodded. “Poor Cassie, clearly he was put through the ringer.” Chewing thoughtfully, he added, “I’d guess it had to have been at least five of ‘em to do so much damage cause Cassie’s no slouch when it comes to fighting; the little guys pretty fierce.”

“Are you tellen’ me that Cas took on five _angels_ by himself,” Dean asked, incredulous. 

“Exactamundo, Deano,” was Gabriel’s blithe reply. If that was the case, Dean was wondering how in the hell Cas was in even here and not off somewhere in the great unknown with his wings burnt to a crisp. 

Gesturing toward the bed with his finger, the former Trickster went on to say, “If you pull Cassie’s flasher attire aside, you’ll see what tangling with several sharp objects wielded by a bunch of religious zealots’ll get ya.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “He’s been wounded by angel swords?”

Gabriel stopped mid chew, giving Dean a ‘are you for real’ look before saying, “Well, duh. It does happen to be my bro-bros weapon of choice.” Taking another bite of his candy bar, he mumbled, “Good thing you’re pretty cause you won’t get far in life with that damaged noodle of yours.”

“Damn it all to hell,” Dean muttered in frustration before sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching for the lapel of Cas’ trench coat. Pulling it back, Dean let out a hiss. Crap, this looked really bad. “Why didn’t you heal him,” Dean demanded without taking his eyes off of the blue, iridescent light streaming from no less than ten wounds of varying size.

“Listen, beetle-dung for brains,” Gabriel snapped hatefully, “I tried, but for some reason it didn’t work. Which gave me the notion that Cassie here isn’t sporting your run of the mill boo-boos, that and the fact that his Grace should have started healing him by now, which in case you haven’t noticed, isn’t happening.” Casting his gaze around the room, he wondered aloud, “Speaking of brains, where’s the Moose?”

“Out,” Dean bit out tersely while loosening the knot of Cas’ blue tie so that he could get to the buttons of the formerly white dress shirt. There was a shit-load of blood mixed with all that blue light, and Dean was worried out of his skull. If what Gabriel said was true, and Cas couldn’t heal himself, and the arch-angel couldn’t either then they were definitely dealing with something unknown.

Gabriel rolled his eyes, even though Dean’s attention was on his injured brother. “Clearly,” he remarked, throwing more gold colored paper over his shoulder. “Y’know I realize that conversation isn’t your forte, but the least you could do is give me a more verbose answer than that.” Then, that dick totally unnerved Dean by adding, “I kinda like Gigantor.”

“Stay away from my brother, jack-ass,” Dean ordered as slipped the last plastic disc from its hole. “Christ almighty,” he exclaimed on seeing the damage done to Cas’ torso. Running his hand along the back of his neck, he asked in a voice that shook, “Is he gonna die?”

For the first time, Dean detected a note of sympathy when Gabriel said, “Probably, we seldom recover from that much damage without the assistance of our Grace. To be honest, I’m surprised that he’s lasted this long.”

“Cas isn’t like the rest of your asshat family,” Dean informed the arch-angel with unmistakable pride. Reaching under the bed, he pulled out the first-aid kit he and Sam had fashioned from an old tackle box. Flipping it open he blindly reached for, and found, a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Sam was out gathering up supplies which included beer and whiskey as Dean’d finished off the last of both last night otherwise he’d be dumping cheap scotch on the guy. “Cas,” he whispered to the unconscious angel. “Come on, buddy,” he said more loudly, gently slapping his face.

Dean was rewarded with a slight moan and a fluttering of lashes. “Dean?” Cas’ voice sounded strangled, the thin line of blood escaping down the side of his mouth was major worrisome cause that could mean only one thing; massive internal damage.

Dean put on a brave face and twisted his lips into cocky grin before saying, “In the flesh, dude.” In what he hoped was a casual gesture, Dean used his thumb to wipe away the streak of red, then cupped Cas’ cheek with his hand. “I’m gonna fix you up good as new,” he proclaimed with a certainty that he was far from feeling.

Cas smiled weakly, leaning into Dean’s palm, taking comfort from his touch and whispered, “I think that’s highly unlikely, my friend. I’m much too dama…”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean interrupted brusquely, his brows lowering into a frown. “I don’t wanna hear that crap from you; have a little faith, man.” Which was kinda ironic coming from him, but a negative attitude wasn’t gonna help the situation any.

Cas’ pain filled eyes closed briefly, before settling back on Dean with new-found determination; blue eyes blazing. “My faith in you, Dean Winchester has never wavered, not once. It’s been the only true constant in my life.” Dean swallowed hard, fighting the burning sensation behind his eyes. “I will carry that belief to wherever it is that I go after my demise.”

“Damn you, Cas,” Dean growled, gripping his face with both hands now, “shut the fuck up with that dying bullshit!” He willed with his eyes, with all of his might, for Cas to believe what he was saying. That he _wasn’t_ gonna die. That he could be saved and most importantly that Dean _needed_ Cas to survive this!

Placing his hand over Dean’s, Cas squeezed it reassuringly before saying, “As you wish.”

It wasn’t much of an admission, but it was enough for Dean and he latched onto like a life-line. “That’s better,” Dean said gruffly, releasing his hold on Cas’ face, before adding, “Now, this is going to sting some.” As he held the rubbing alcohol up, Cas gave him a nod which Dean took as the okay to continue. “Here we go.”

The agonized groans and whimpers that followed the repeated pouring of alcohol tore Dean’s guts apart more thoroughly and gruesomely than any Hellhound ever could've. Knowing that it was a necessary step did nothing to assuage his guilt at causing the angel such excruciating pain, and he was probably almost as thankful as Cas when he was finally done.

“You’re doing great,” Dean assured the shivering angel with a small smile of encouragement as he carefully used a square piece of gauze to remove the surplus liquid. “I’m just gonna stitch you up now.”

“It won’t do any good,” came a voice from behind Dean.

He’d totally forgotten that the other angel was even there. Glancing back, Dean saw that Gabriel’d decided to make himself comfortable in one of the two chairs in the room. He was slouched low in the seat, one leg crossed over the other, his foot bopping up and down as if sitting still was an impossibility for the douche bag.

“If you aren’t gonna help, then shut the fuck up,” Dean snarled. 

“I am _trying_ to help,” Gabriel declared snidely. 

Dean snorted in disbelief and reached into the kit for needle and thread. He did not have time to indulge in verbal sparring, not when Cas was shaking as if he’d just been pulled outta the Artic ocean; the covers beneath him drenched with a messy mixture of sweat, blood, and rubbing alcohol and Dean ignored the fact that it had started to seep through the material of his jeans.

“Listen up shit for brains,” Gabriel snapped at Dean’s back. “You can embroider away at Cassie’s meat suit all you want, but it won’t make a bit of difference because the real damage is to his Grace.”

“Dean,” Cas whispered hoarsely, “he’s right.” When no answer was forthcoming, Cas made a weak grab at his friend who was concentrating on pushing thread through the narrow eye of the needle. “S…stop,” he stuttered, exhaustion written all over his strained features. “Just, let me go.” Cas slumped back, eyelids standing at half-mast over quickly dimming, dull blue eyes. 

Sparing a glance over his shoulder once more, Dean questioned urgently, “There’s really nothing you can do?”

Pursing his lips, Gabriel shook his head from side-to-side before saying in a broken voice, “I’m sorry.”

Dean’s heart clenched up so tight in his chest that the pain was crippling. He let out an agonized, inarticulate cry that shook even the implacable Gabriel, before screaming at the ceiling. “You goddamned fucken’ bastard! He _never_ stopped believing in you! Did his best to do whatever the hell he thought you’d want him to, and this is what he gets?!” Dean cleared the bedside table with one swoop of his arm, the base of the lamp shattering as it hit the floor, books and papers flying haphazardly through the air. “You fucken’ don’t deserve his loyalty!” Dropping to his knees, Dean did the one thing he swore he’d never do; he prayed.


	2. Preparing For Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to pray. Gabriel tries to get them both to open their eyes. Cas just tries to stay alive.

Chapter 2

Dean didn’t know who was more stunned by his actions. It was probably a toss up cause Gabriel let out a shocked squawk (probably had a mouth too full of sugared junk to be able to manage anything more than that) while Cas gasped and fought his way up onto one elbow, as for him… well, it was a clusterfuck of weird cause Dean had vowed that he’d never again submit himself to praying to Cas’ deadbeat dad. But, it was _Cas_ and he was a shitload of desperate.

Long ago, when Dean still had a mom who sang ‘Hey Jude’ to him whenever he couldn’t sleep, and stroked his hair with soft, soothing hands Dean had believed. Believed all that sorry shit about angels and how they were watching over him cause that’s what his mom had told him, and not just once either. _Repeatedly_. Dean’d taken great comfort in that, and so he’d prayed for the people he loved. Prayed for his mom, his dad and little Sammy; prayed for them every gaddamned night. He would ask the angels and God to keep his family happy, to keep them safe, and always to keep them together. And, yeah, every now and again he’d pray for a pony, but what kid didn’t.

Then, that horrible night of the fire tore every belief Dean’d had bout God and angels to shreds cause let’s face it, what kind of God would let something that ass-backward happen to someone as wonderful as his mom? As he’d huddled close to his dad’s side and silently watched the house burn, Dean’d asked him in a small voice why the angels hadn’t saved his mom. His dad’s answer had been brief and said with such harshness that it’d scared him cause his dad never sounded like that: “There ain’t no such thing, Dean.”

John Winchester had been mega-wrong on that score, but as Dean’d discovered for himself; angels weren’t so far removed from all the other monsters that they’d hunted for years. In some ways, they were worse with their stick up their asses, their arrogance, and stuck-up ideas about the lowliness of Mankind and on top of their shitty attitudes; they were hard as fuck to kill. Yeah, they were bastards of the highest order with the exception of Cas. 

Sure, Cas’d been a total douche when they’d first met and in his wildest dreams Dean would never have pictured himself making a close friend of the angel. Yet, somehow Cas had wormed his way into Dean’s life and made a home for himself there. Normally, that would’ve freaked Dean the hell out – at first it kinda did – no denying the facts of Dean’s less than open nature. Cas just sorta persisted in pushing himself into Dean’s personal space, figuratively _and_ literally, and before Dean knew it he’d become an integral part of their messed up, misfit crew of a family. And family did _not_ give up on each other! Family did _not_ sit by and let them just die, and he’d be damned if he’d break _that_ particular pattern now!

“Dean,” he heard Cas call weakly, surprise evident in his voice. If his eyes had been open, Dean would’ve seen Cas reaching out for him; tenderness and confusion warring with each other in his gaze.

“Not now, Cas,” Dean ordered, “I’m prayin’ to your asshole of a father.”

At the first touch to his skin, Dean’s lids flew open. From this position, he and the angel were basically eye-to-eye, and those magnificent blue orbs were shining with what Dean could only assume were unshed tears. And, while the shimmer they held was as beautiful as sunlight dappling along the gentle swell of the sea, they were also fucken’ terrifying cause that just _couldn’t_ be normal for a feathery-ass, non-human heavenly creature. But, then Cas smiled at him, and that smile held such warmth and compassion that Dean nearly choked on the multitude of powerful emotions rampaging through him. Cas’ blood-stained hand slid over his jaw, and up the side of his face until his fingertips were buried in the short strands of hair lying against his temple. 

“You are forever exceeding my expectations,” Cas exclaimed in a prideful manner before slumping heavily back against the headboard.

Dean caught Cas’ hand as it slipped away, and was dismayed at the distinct lack of warmth. It seemed as if his friend was fading fast, so he better get down to the business of prayin’ before it was too late. Gripping him tightly, Dean said with grim determination, “I’m gonna fix this. Now shut the hell up and let me do my thing.”

Dean could hardly believe it when Cas let out – of all things – a genuine chuckle before nodding his head in agreement. Dean was pretty certain that the angel was just humoring him, but dammit all to hell he was not giving up! He didn’t give a fuck how sure Cas was that this was the end for him. Not if Dean Winchester had anything to do with it. Not today. Not on his watch.

“While I admire your tenacity, Dean-o I’m thinking you’re wasting your time. Dad – not unlike Elvis – has long since left the building. So, if I was you I’d just profess your undying love for Cassie here while the opportunity still exists.”

“Shut up, Gabriel,” the other two occupants of the room said in unison. Gabriel’s eyebrows disappeared under the flop of his bangs. Dean had growled it out while Cas had muttered it in exhausted exasperation. Neither one looked at him though. Apparently, they would rather stare with absurd intensity at each other. It was as if he wasn’t even in the room. The arch-angel had seen these two engage in serious eye-sex more times than he could count, so when the hell were they going to wise up?

Spreading his arms wide, the former Trickster pointed out in an effort to be helpful (at least in his mind), “I’m just saying now might be a good time to do something about all that unresolved sexual tension you two have been lugging around like unattended baggage for years.” _That_ caused his bro and dick-weed Dean to finally look in his direction and boy, oh boy, were their expressions priceless. 

Dean masterfully maneuvered around the elephant in the room by asking snidely, “Why is your ass still here?”

“Fuck you, and the mud-monkey you rode in on!” Gabriel cried out, incensed. Pointing his finger and waving it wildly at Cas, he spat out, “That is my brother! _My brother_ , you goddamned sorry excuse of an ill-thought-out creation of my Father’s! If Castiel wasn’t so god-forsakenly attached to you, I’d whisk him away to some place beautiful where he could end his existence in peace!” Placing his hands on his hips, the enraged arch-angel added, “ _I_ am _not_ going anywhere!”

“Brother, please,” Cas entreated wearily.

Gabriel’s face softened and took on an almost pained expression. “I’m so sorry, Cassie.”

“Not your fault.” It came out in a garbled mess, as Cas doubled over. Spasm after spasm of harsh coughing shook his frame. Blood bubbled up, and fell from lips now gone slightly blue.

“Hold on, Cas.” Dean ordered through clenched teeth. “Don’t you die on me, you sorry sonuvabitch!”

While still holding onto Cas’ hand, Dean closed his eyes again and searched his mind for the right words. The words that would bring Castiel, bad-ass-mother-fucker angel of the Lord back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing and make no money.  
> Comments are lovely!


	3. Dean Meets Up With The Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has interesting conversation with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not beta'd so please forgive any mistakes.
> 
> I own nothing and make no money.

 

 

**Chapter Three**

If hard-pressed later, Dean wouldn’t have been able to tell a living soul exactly what’d happened or even _how_ the hell it’d happened. All he knew for sure was that the next time he opened his eyes he was no longer in the crap motel he’d been kneeling in, in the charmingly small and completely unassuming town of Snowflake, Arizona. Scrambling hurriedly up from his knees, he took a quick look around scanning the area for anything that screamed: Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

 

He was in a dimly lit area, so he narrowed suspicious green eyes in order to see better. On first inspection there didn’t appear to be anything worth pulling his gun or demon knife for. But it was mighty tough to tell because a fog – slightly glistening, or hell maybe… illuminating? – hung in the air making it difficult to know for certain.  Dean wasn’t taking any chances so he gingerly slipped old faithful from the waistband of his jeans. On top of this oppressive, fire-fly like mist it was also quiet, a little _too_ damned quiet for Dean’s liking; making him disturbingly and bone-chillingly aware of the weird stillness which had the hairs on his arms rising in reaction. Dean equated the eerie stillness to that of the heavy, ominous pause in the air right before a major electrical shit-storm was about hit.

 

As soon as Dean’s eyes had somewhat adjusted, all the muscles in his hands clamped spasmodically round the grip of his gun as a spike of pure unadulterated horror ran through him. Was he was back in that supreme dick Zachariah’s fuckin’ green room? If so, how the mutherfuckin’ hell had he ended up back here?! Dean steadied his stance – swiveling back and forth at the waist – then pivoted on his heels, gun ready, searching the area at his back. Nothing jumped out at him from the depths of grayness. Thank God for small favors, he supposed. 

 

Suddenly, the smoky, twinkling air separated and then completely dissipated into brightness so stunning in its strength that Dean felt compelled to cover is eyes with one wrist in defense even though it went against every gut instinct he had. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the devastating brightness was gone leaving Dean with the ability to _really_ view the room for the first time in its entirety.

 

“They’ll be no need to wield your weapon here, Dean.”

 

Dean spun around, alarmed that even though he’d been on high alert, someone had managed to sneak up on him with the unnatural stealth that Dean’d only ever attributed to Cas. He was even more stunned when he realized who stood before him. A ‘holy hell’ followed quickly with a ‘what the fuck’ stampeded through his noggin’.

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 

After picking his jaw up from where it rested on his chest, Dean asked incredulous, “Chuck?”

 

Raising his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, the other man answered with a small smile, “In the flesh, or so to speak.”

 

Dean, who was making a Herculean effort to unscramble his brain, demanded through clenched teeth, “What the hell is going on here? What is this place?” Because Dean now realized that it wasn’t Zachariah’s death-trap of a green room. Nothing like, in fact.

 

For one thing this room was round… No, not round exactly; more oval-ish, and not nearly as cavernous as the other had been, and it wasn’t a stark white either nor looked like it’d been decorated by Angels Are Us. The walls were a mix of dark blue and, he guessed maybe a shade of black, but wasn’t certain. One concave area had – what looked to be – a mural of sorts. It was difficult for Dean to take in the details while trying to keep at least one eye trained on the other ‘person’ here with him. Dean was starting to think it was an angel posing as Chuck and, if one were smart, one didn’t take their eyes off an angel.

 

The distinct scent of apples and cinnamon reached his nose, and was that rice and tomato soup he was smellin’ too? The next thing that assailed his senses was the taste of oil in the back of this throat followed quickly by the flavor of whiskey. What the _hell_ was happening? This was well beyond way weird and Dean might’ve found all this weirdness a tad comforting in an ass-backward kinda way if Chuck wanna-be hadn’t been here too. This was _his_ doing, it had to be! That being the case, Dean couldn’t afford to let himself relax into this pseudo-comfort no matter how enticing.

 

“I suppose,” Chuck began slowly, “you could call it a waiting room of sorts.”

 

Dean swallowed, enjoying the aftertaste of fine whiskey despite his certainty that this asshole angel-dude was responsible for it, and bit out angrily, “Stop what you’re doin’ and I mean right now.” At ‘Chuck’s’ confused expression Dean added, “These things that you’re making me smell and taste.” And feel. “Stop messing with me and my head, or I’ll shoot you where you stand, no more questions asked.” Not that shooting an angel (if Dean’s suspicions were correct) would do much good but it’d go a long way to making him feel better.

 

With wry exasperation, Chuck answered the serious-as-hell man, “This isn’t my doing, Dean. You haven’t got much imagination, or this place would be a lot more interesting. Yet, I’m finding it hard to believe – with all that I know of you – this is all you could come up with.” Tapping his chin in a reflective manner, he then tacked on, “The only other possible explanation for this rather prosaic background must be attributed to your lack of faith. This, as Castiel has so eloquently informed you of, is one of your problems.”

 

Dean snorted before waggling his gun at Chuck. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that this is all me?” When no response was forthcoming, Dean snapped, “Chuck – if that is who you are, _which_ I highly doubt – I don’t give a fuck about this room or your views on my faith or lack there-of. All I want are some answers. Give ‘em to me in plain English cause a bunch of high-falootin’ mumbo-jumbo bullshit is just gonna really, _really_ piss me off, and when I’m pissed I tend to act without thinkin’.”

 

Clicking his tongue in re-proof Chuck, who sounded abnormally sanguine considering a Colt.45 was aimed at his slightly tilted head (and under threat of being shot clean off), replied, “Dean, Dean, Dean.” Sighing, he continued with a look of disappointment stamped on his features, “This place _is_ of your own making and your weapon really is unnecessary, and have I failed to mention also utterly useless?”

 

His weapon was useless? Well, that wasn’t good, nope, not good at all. Dean, suspecting he was being lied to, murmured suspiciously, “That a fact? What if I don’t believe you? What if I just go ahead and check it out for myself? You know,” he challenged sarcastically, “just to keep it real and all.”

 

Giving a nonchalant shrug, Chuck replied, “Be my guest. I’m all for keeping it real; present environment notwithstanding.”

 

For the first time since this whole surreal – whatever it was – had occurred, doubts began to filter through Dean. For a second, his gun wavered in his hand then he demanded harshly, “ _Are_ you Chuck? Chuck Shurley – Prophet of the Lord?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean muttered conversationally, “If you are – fuck all weird as that would be – I’d be good with it. Course you’d have to prove you’re _really_ Chuck; me being the untrusting type a guy that I am.”

 

Huffing a small laugh and giving Dean a quizzical stare (and whoa, that reminded him a helluva lot of Cas) Chuck or Chuck wanna-be answered softly, “I am Chuck Shurley… after a fashion.”

 

“Wow,” Dean bit out sardonically, renewing his strangle-hold on the gun, “that really clears things up. Thanks for a whole lotta nothing.”

 

Chuck merely pointed out gently, “You’re asking all the wrong questions, Dean.”

 

“Is that a fact,” Dean shot back snidely. “How bout you point me in the right direction.”

 

“Very well,” Chuck agreed. “Let’s start off with how you got here.”

 

“I don’t think so, dude,” Dean calmly disagreed. “Let’s _start_ with who the hell you are.”

 

“As you wish,” Chuck gave in willingly before saying with clear amusement, “You’re a rather troublesome enigma, Dean Winchester. An interesting mix of pride and self-loathing; stubborn and unreasonable, yet willing to give into whatever is asked of you if it means saving those dearest to you. You carry an immeasurable amount of anger and wrath, but it’s tempered by a deep, abiding love and tenderness that you keep well hidden. You truly are a perfect, flawed creation.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Dean responded snidely. Then, with a wry twist to his lips, Dean amended his statement by saying conversationally, “Unless you were a hot chick with killer legs and a mighty fine rack.”

 

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes Chuck remarked with a chuckle, “How could I have forgotten Dean Winchester’s infamously insatiable lust for Lust?”  Quirking an eyebrow, he answered his own question by saying, “Perhaps it’s because it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in sampling all the carnal pleasures those lovely ladies have to offer.”

 

“Hey,” Dean exclaimed indignantly, “I’m still a huge stud. Just been kinda busy lately is all.”

 

“I am aware,” Chuck acknowledged with a nod of his head. “Averting the Apocalypse, avoiding demons _and_ angels; both, of which, are out for vengeance in one manner or another does tend to be time consuming.”

 

“You seem to know a helluva lot there, Chuck.”

 

“Being all-knowing and all-seeing does have its benefits.”

 

Completely flummoxed, Dean lowered his gun before asking incredulous, “God? _You’re_ God? Come on, you gotta be kiddin’ me. Chuck Shurley is a terminally drunk, half-assed writer of half-baked novels. Other than having a questionable taste in chicks (Becky and Lady Magdalene came to mind) he’s a pretty good guy, but _God_? I don’t think so, dude.”

 

“They’re not half baked-novels, Dean,” Chuck corrected severely. “They are the Winchester Gospels and, long after you and Sam are gone, they will be read by generations to come.” Dean’s stance stiffened as Chuck began to move closer. “You and I both know that Chuck drinks in order to deal with the migraines and horrific events that he witnesses in his visions. Let’s not be hypocritical, Dean. You’re not averse to a drink or two yourself, so I wouldn’t be going around casting stones if I were you.”

 

It wasn’t until Chuck was about four feet from Dean that he realized not only hadn’t he had the inclination to raise his weapon in defense, but that he didn’t actually feel as if Chuck meant him any sorta harm. What the fuck was _that_ about? Still, ingrained habits were tough to break and belatedly he began to lift his arms cocking the gun as he did so. 

 

“Stop right there,” Dean commanded, but it was as if Chuck hadn’t heard the threat of violence in Dean’s voice cause the fucker just kept on coming! “I mean it.” And he did, even though the words shook right along with his arms. “I _will_ shoot you.”

 

“No Dean, you won’t.” Chuck had the gall to refute him before raising his own arm and making a quick twist of his wrist.

 

And, of all the fucked up things to happen, his precious .45 just out-and-out disappeared right from is fuckin’ hands! Before his eyes! His unbelieving eyes! This was totally fucked up, man!

 

“No worries, Dean. I’ve sent it back to the motel room,” Chuck informed him with a serene smile. “I’m well aware of your attachment to it. When you return, you will find it perfectly safe and in perfect working condition. I wouldn’t deprive you of a weapon of such import. Sentimental value aside, you’re going to need it.”

 

“If you really are God,” Dean was beginning to think he was, “where the fuck have you been and why didn’t you tell us who you were when Cas and I zapped to your house right before I tried to stop Sammy from killin’ Lilith?” Dean knew he sounded belligerent and disrespectful, but he didn’t give a shit cause this bastard hadn’t been MIA at all! He’d been right there the _whole_ fuckin’ time!

 

“You misunderstand, Dean,” Chuck began and then waved his hand up and down his body, “I have taken the form of Chuck Shurley, but it isn’t my actual manifestation. If I were to have come to you as such, you would not have survived the encounter.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Dean said, mind working double time, “are you possessing Chuck right now?”

 

This did not sit well with Dean. He really hated it that those ass-wipe angels took over regular every day people who’d been tricked into thinking they were doing God’s will and all that stupid ‘holy’ shit. They never told those poor shmucks what their fates were _really_ gonna be. Trapped inside for God knew how long (could be centuries!) with no will of their own and after those dicks were done wearing those true believers they were left dribbling, babbling messes; their minds totally demolished. Yeah, _so_ not okay with it.

 

“I have no need to do so,” Chuck patiently explained. “I merely appear to you in Chuck’s _form_ not in his body. As Chuck is familiar to you, I thought you might be more comfortable if you were seeing him while we have our conversation.”

 

“Oh,” clearing his throat, Dean said, “Thanks… I think.”

 

Pleased, GodChuck smiled and answered, “You’re welcome. Now, let us discuss why you are here now that we’ve established who I am.”

 

“Wait,” Dean intervened quickly, still wanting answers to his questions. “Where have you been, dude? Cas looked for you all over the place.” With renewed anger, Dean bit out, “He was devastated, man and I’m talkin’ to the point of drinkin’ an entire liquor store devastated.” Pointing his finger at Chuck, Dean continued waspishly, “He never gave up on you. He practically moved Heaven and earth to find you!” GodChuck’s face screwed up in anger, as Dean continued his tirade. “But he came back empty handed over and over. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, his douche-bag brothers and sisters were houndin’ his ass big time. I’m sure y’know – you being their daddy and all – that using his angel mojo made him a target, but he didn’t give a fuck; he kept searchin’ for you, you sorry motherfucker. How could you do that to him?”

 

“While I understand your anger, Dean there _are_ things that are beyond your comprehension.” Dean snorted, and Chuck continued sounding more severe. “I owe you no explanations just as I owe Castiel no explanations. Suffice it to say, everything that has occurred has been within the parameters of a clear and defined, divine cosmic plan.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dean argued, “and you can take your _divine plan_ and shove it up your ass.”

 

“If he were here, Castiel would rebuke you for speaking to me in such a manner.” GodChuck’s mouth quirked up slightly as he added sounding both amused and bemused, “Though, I doubt it would have anything to do with your irreverence and more to do with him fearing for your life _because_ of your irreverence.”  

 

Ooh-kay. So GodChuck was reminding him that he could smite him into smithereens. Like Dean didn’t already know that. But, maybe he’d better tone it down a bit cause it wasn’t like he actually needed Dean’s body like Michael did; this douche had no real reason to not smite him for being a big-mouthed smart ass.

 

Moderating his tone, Dean asked, “Why are you here now?”

 

GodChuck, sounding like he was stating what Dean should already know, replied, “You prayed to me, Dean.”

 

Dean blinked. Huh. This was weird. “I’ve prayed plenty, dude and this is the first you’re pullin’ a burnin’ bush on me.”

 

A fuck all if GodChuck didn’t totally astonish Dean by bursting out laughing! Actual, honest to goodness laughing, and Dean really felt like he was in a royally fucked up version of The Twilight Zone.

 

Seeing Dean’s exasperated confusion only set GodChuck off again, and it took awhile before he was able to contain his mirth. When he finally did, he offered up an explanation.

 

“I am not without a sense of humor, Dean. Take the aardvark for example, and _you_ definitely have the gift of amusing me greatly.” GodChuck’s eyes were still twinkling when he remarked, “I really am here because you prayed to me.”

 

Put out, Dean huffed, “So, like I said… I’ve prayed plenty and you’ve been a no-show til now.”

 

“Your prayers, up until now, haven’t been made to _me._ Have you not realized that when you have prayed it has been, not to your God, but to your angel?”

 

Dean’s brows drew together tightly. Yeah, he supposed that was true, but Dean didn’t count it as odd or out of the ordinary. Hell, it was Cas’ doin’ that Dean even prayed at all. It just seemed natural for him to address all of his spoken aloud thoughts – Dean wasn’t even really sure it counted as prayin’ – to the angel.  At least _Cas_ answered him and when he didn’t he mostly had a good reason for it. Dean believed in his friendship with Cas, and believed that Cas’d always do his best to have his back. Dean hadn’t always been the nicest to the angel, but Cas’ loyalty hadn’t wavered and that meant a helluva lot to Dean. Basically, Dean _believed_ in Cas and the same could not be said of GodChuck here.

 

 

GodChuck’s amusement vanished within a blink of an eye to be replaced by such awe-inspiring solemnity that it made Dean almost wanna bow down and beg forgiveness. Almost.

 

“Your unremitting faith in Castiel is not without justification. It would be remiss of me to rebuke you for your enduring belief in one of my most majestic creations; he has indeed earned your respect, friendship, and loyalty.”

 

Dean’s eyes widened in horror. The bastard was reading his mind!

 

“Yes,” GodChuck verified Dean’s fear. “Up until now I have respected the privacy of your thoughts. I know how much you abhor that particular practice. You apparently have no idea that often your thoughts are so loud, and of such an intense nature, that they are impossible ignore.”

 

Dean fidgeted nervously. “Can we cut to the chase here,” he asked, anxious to get off the subject of his thoughts and the reading of minds. “You know why I prayed, right?”

 

“Indeed,” GodChuck acknowledged gravely. “Castiel is mortally wounded and you desire that I heal him.”

 

“That’s about the gist of it,” Dean returned with a hopeful smile. “No time like the present. Get on with the healin’.”

 

Cocking his head to the side, GodChuck asked quietly, “Why, Dean?”

 

Dean was so shocked by this question that for a second he did nothing, and then he let fly with an angry, “What d’ya mean _why_? Cause he’s one of your kids. Cause he’s one of the good guys. Cause it’s _Cas_!”

 

Fathomless eyes narrowed. “Have I not already saved Castiel thrice?” Dean’s heart seized in terror. “More times than any other child of my creation has he been reformed and had his Grace restored to him; made that much more powerful by my hand. Even for Castiel, who has served us both well, there must be an end.”

 

“No,” Dean snarled, grabbing GodChuck by the shoulders. “I won’t let you! He’s given so much… done everything, been a good little soldier… all in your name! He’s the best of those holier than thou asshat sonsofbitches to ever come outta Heaven and he deserves to be saved!”

 

GodChuck’s hold on Dean’s wrists was firm but gentle as he pushed him away. “Castiel is indeed a remarkable achievement on countless levels.” Dean allowed a certain amount of hope to blossom. “Still, you must understand that to everything there is a season. I’m sorry, Dean. Truly.”

 

Stunned, Dean asked in disbelief, “So, that’s it? That’s all y’got for me?”

 

“Dean…”

 

“I said, _no_ ,” the agitated man yelled, heart hammering out of control. Pointing an accusing finger he bit out with a low growl, “Screw you and your seasons.” Dean was so pissed he couldn’t even see straight. GodChuck wavered and blurred in his vision, and Dean didn’t even know he was on the verge of tears until he heard it in his voice. “Please,” he begged, choking up. “Just this one more time. I won’t ever ask for anything else in my whole sorry as shit life.”

 

GodChuck sighed quietly. “There might be a way…

 

Wiping his face on his sleeve, Dean rushed in eagerly, “What’d I hafta to do, Chuck? Tell me and I’ll do it.” Then, he declared, “I don’t care if I hafta become a monk or some shit like that. I’ll do it. Come on,” he insisted, “let’s make a deal.”

 

A lightening storm, an actual lightening storm, swirled and brewed like an untamed tempest in GodChuck’s eyes. “How dare you offer to wheel and deal with me as if I were some common Cross Roads demon,” he roared and Dean stumbled backward as the room shook violently and gale-force winds buffeted him ruthlessly. All he needed now was a house, a flying cow, and Toto cause GodChuck was already providing the tornado.

 

The massive crashing and thundering was indescribable; there just were no words in the human language to cover it, and Dean feared the boxers he was wearing were about to be irreparably stained. Covering his ears didn’t help much either. If he had to put a description to it, he’d say it was as if a volcano was exploding the same time a mountain was crumbling down around him. Take all that and mix in one helluva shit storm, and that’d be close but still _way_ off base. This was it, Dean thought fatalistically, his ass was gonna get smote and smote good.

 

Dean was forced to his knees by the relentless power of the overwhelming onslaught. Covering is head with his arms, he prepared for whatever the hell was gonna happen. If he was lucky, it would be quick and painless. He supposed exploding was quick and painless but it had a real yuck factor, so Dean sent out a hope (he refused to call it a prayer) that he wasn’t going to be blowing chunks all over the fuckin’ place. Maybe Chuck’d realize what a bitch that stuff was to clean up and end Dean’s existence with a little more class and a lot less gross.

 

I love ya, Sammy! Please, please keep my Baby safe and try not to turn out to be too much of a dork. Odds are against it though without me there to balance you out some. Thanks Cas, for savin’ my bacon more times than I can count. Sorry I couldn’t return the favor buddy. You have your douche of a dad to thank for that. Maybe you and me can hook up in the great unknown. We could go find Ash and hang out; have a beer or two. You’d like him, Cas.

 

The racket had all but deafened Dean, so it was understandable that it took a minute or two before he realized that the room had gone quiet. Taking a chance he warily opened one eye. GodChuck was a little further away from Dean than he had been before trying to send Dean over the rainbow. Probably was afraid if he was closer he’d strangle the life outta the hunter. Whatever.  Dean was just grateful that he was going to live to fight another day… hopefully.

 

Opening both eyes, he quickly looked himself over; patting himself down to make sure all relevant body parts were intact. Heaving a sigh of relief after discovering all were there an accounted for, which was also fuckin’ fine with Dean, he made a hesitant move to stand up.

 

“Stay where you are, Dean.”

 

While Dean wasn’t too keen on torturing his knees any further, he also didn’t wanna piss off GodChuck anymore than he already had. Dude was still fuming, he could tell. Seeing as how he hadn’t ended up as human chunky soup, Dean figured he wouldn’t risk that possibility by refusing to obey.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not even sure why he was apologizing, but hey, couldn’t hurt; right?

 

GodChuck threw Dean for a loop by saying, “I’d like to tell you a story.”

 

“Uh, okay,” Dean agreed, really, _really_ confused. “But, what about Cas?” At GodChuck’s furiously furrowed brow and exasperated expression, Dean added cautiously, “It’s just we been here for awhile and well… when I left or got beamed up or whatever, he was in a pretty bad way…”

 

Dean let out a relieved sigh, when GodChuck said, “Castiel still lives.”

 

“Good. Great… uh, thanks.”

 

“Thanks are unnecessary, Dean,” GodChuck informed him with quiet sincerity. “Castiel is strong.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed with a fond half smile, “he’s got one tough feathery ass for sure.”

 

“Indeed,” GodChuck agreed amiably before asking, “Did you know that when Castiel’s garrison was ordered to retrieve your soul from Hell that, initially, Castiel was refused permission to accompany his brothers and sisters on the mission?”

 

“No,” Dean began slowly, a bit unnerved. “Me and Cas haven’t ever talked about it.”

 

 Dean had his reasons for that. Nightmares of his time in the Pit still haunted him and as for Cas, well Dean supposed he had his own reasons for not mentioning his descent into Hell. Or maybe he just respected Dean’s stance on the matter. Whatever the case might be, their mutual code of silence worked for Dean.

 

“At that time, Castiel had been the last angel of my creation.” GodChuck smiled to himself. “Even though he was by your estimation millennium ages old, he was considered quite young by Heaven’s standard. Because of this, it was determined that Castiel was unprepared for such a venture as the raising of the Righteous Man.”

 

Dean frowned. “I’m not a real fan of that title. Fact is, I hate it.”

 

Cocking his head to the side – and _man_ Dean really wished he’d stop that – GodChuck, answered back, “That might be so, Dean but it doesn’t change the fact that it was a title destined to be yours.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Dean bit out in an exasperation, “Dude, quit with the whole destiny crap already. _I_ make my destiny. _Me_. Otherwise your douche-kid Michael would be walkin’ round wearin’ my body instead of kickin’ up dirt with his bro in the Cage.”

 

GodChuck remarked cryptically, “There are things beyond your comprehension. Things which, at present, due to your spiritual and emotional ‘constipation’ as Sam would put it, make you unable to grasp those things.”

 

“Whatever, dude,” Dean snapped, not at all interested in hearing this crap. “How bout you get back to your bedtime story.”

 

Shit was just gettin’ good. Maybe God here could shed some light on the mystery know as Castiel. It was rare for Dean to find anything fascinating cause his line of work tended to tear the fascination off just about everything but Cas, even though he’d become a good buddy, was still as much of a fascinating mystery as when they first met.

 

Speculation gleamed in GodChuck’s swirling star-infested, infinite eyes. “Castiel is…” he paused before continuing softly, “… special.”

 

No shit, Dean thought exasperated. “And…”

 

“ _And_ many of his brothers and sisters were unprepared for how adamant Castiel was in terms of going with them to Hell. He could have been ordered stay behind; many thought this should have been the case, but Michael gave his consent.”

 

“ _And_ , “Dean took up sardonically, “whatever Michael said those stupid, free-will less asses did without question.”

 

“Just so,” GodChuck answered sounding matter-of-fact. “It was Michael’s duty, in my absence, to take charge of Heaven.” 

 

“Chief Douche did a bang-up job of that, now didn’t he?”

 

“Dean, without Michael you would, in all probability, still be a slave in Hell.” That statement startled Dean out of his wits. “In fact, by this point, it is conceivable that you would be one of Hell’s most devious and blood-thirsty of demons.”

 

Shock and revulsion made it impossible for Dean to formulate a thought let alone a response.

 

Taking advantage of Dean’s stupor, GodChuck elaborated. “When the garrison finally reached you they were all appalled at what you had become.” Dean winched, but GodChuck took no pity on him. “They were disgusted by your inability to hold fast; to endure, to maintain faith.  You had traded what was left of your humanity for release from the rack; The Righteous Man was no more. To them, there could have been no worse act of betrayal against your God and all that He had bequeathed you.”

 

That got a rise out of Dean. Jumping to his feet, and ignoring the painful pop and crack of muscle and bone, he pointed his finger at GodChuck in an accusatory fashion and sneered, “You or, whatever fucked up deities are out there, _bequeathed_ me jack-shit!”

 

Ignoring this proclamation, GodChuck went on to say, “Castiel’s brethren – all that remained of their garrison because many were destroyed as they fought their way through the levels of Hell – turned their backs on you Dean. Only Castiel – one small, inferior foot soldier – disobeyed those of higher rank and reached out to you.”

 

Dean didn’t know what to say. He tried to ignore the burning at the back of his eyes and the tightening in his sinus cavities because dammit! ...  he was _not_ gonna ball like a fuckin’ wuss! Fighting off this alarming onslaught of emotion, Dean answered gruffly, “Look what it got him.”

 

Dean was startled at the firm but gentle touch to his shoulder. Fucker sure was slick; he’d never even heard him move! GodChuck slid his hand down from Dean’s shoulder until it rested right over the spot where Cas’s handprint used to be. Giving the unblemished skin a slight squeeze (in consolation?), he answered back, “Yes, Dean… look what it got him.”

 

The seriousness in GodChuck’s voice had Dean choking back another bout of unfathomable grief cause knowing Dean had brought nuthin’ to Cas but misery in one form or another and it was just about killin’ him to think on it. Dean tended not to dwell on much of anything cause when he did, shit like this happened and that’s when he’d take to drinkin’.   Dean doubted very much that GodChuck here would be willin’ to go on a beer run or maybe rustle up a bottle of Jack. Well, shit.

 

“Whatever, man,” Dean sniffed slightly before clearing his throat. “That it? Can we get back to Cas and maybe healin’ him or somethin’ along those lines?”

 

“Hear me out, Dean,” GodChuck urged, “Castiel’s life could very well depend upon it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter ends kind of awkwardly, but this chapter alone was already over 5000 words so I divided it up. Bear with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, comments, reviews, and constructive critique are always welcome.


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